


Chicago, 1987

by TrueImmortality



Category: Supernatural, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Chicago (City), Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Fake Character Death, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Poor Dean Winchester, Poor Thomas, Protective Dean Winchester, Rite of Passage, White Court of Vampires, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 07:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueImmortality/pseuds/TrueImmortality
Summary: Chicago, Illinois is no place for hunters' kids, especially while their dad has gone out to put to rest a few things-that-go-bump in the night. After all, it's a large city, but not large enough that one of those things won't come calling at the no-tel while Daddy Winchester's away. A Dresden Files-Supernatural crossover.





	Chicago, 1987

 

_\- 1987: Chicago, Illinois -_

 

Dean Winchester was too old for _The Wizard of Oz_.

            He was eight years old, and he liked _The Princess Bride_. It had sword fighting, and the Dread Pirate Roberts, and funny words like ‘inconceivable’. It was just a little bit scary but only an older kid would understand it, so that’s why he liked it. It was a grown-up movie, right? Which is why Sammy didn’t get it and never wanted to watch it.

All Sammy ever wanted to watch was _The Wizard of Oz_. Every time it would start playing on a motel television, Dean’s little brother would plant himself in front of the screen and refuse to move. He would cower when the Wicked Witch of the West came on, no matter how many times Dean sighed and said, ‘Sam, she’s not a _real_ witch, she’s an actor.’ Sam would sing along to the songs under his breath, his dark eyes wide and fixed on the colorful sights of Oz.

In other words, Dean was sick of that movie. He wanted to watch _The Princess Bride_ , or _Predator_ , or _Robocop_. At this point, he would even take some of the goofy cartoons Sammie liked. Anything. But. _The Wizard_. _Of._ _Oz_. “Sammy,” he groaned, flopping over onto the ugly tan couch in the hotel room, “can we please watch something else?”

“Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” Sam said, along with Glinda.

Dean put a hand to his face and rubbed it, making one side wrinkle up. “Sammy—“

“They’re laughing because I am a witch,” Sam said, still quoting. “I’m Glinda, the Witch of the North.”

“Glinda’s a bad witch,” Dean grumbled. “She doesn’t care that the evil witch is gonna mess Dorothy up. I mean, she gives her the ruby slippers, and she _knows_ the evil witch wants them!”

“Munchkins!” Sam cried, in delight, and leaned in closer to the screen.

“Munchkins aren’t real, either,” Dean said. He had to remind himself sometimes that the things on television weren’t real. Werewolves, vampires, ghosts—those were real. Munchkins weren’t. And he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think good witches were real, either. Dad never talked about good witches.

The little munchkins started their parade on the screen. Sam’s small body fairly vibrated with happiness. Dean sank deeper onto the hotel couch and sighed gustily. His younger brother would never let him change the channel, not without a major pout fest. Still, maybe he could change Sam’s mind. “Sam,” he asked, “if I get you some candy from the vending machine, can we please change the channel?”

“Nope!” Sam said, without looking away from the munchkins.

“Fine.” Dean rolled off the couch. He checked to make sure the pistol Dad had left on the bedside table was still unloaded, and then he checked the ammo clip in his pocket. He double-checked the salt lines around each of the windows and doors while he was at it, making sure the lines were unbroken. As a last precaution, he pulled a necklace with a silver crucifix over his head. The big silver cross made him look like one of those gangsters on tv, but he knew it would protect him from most vampires. He put one on Sammy’s neck, too. “I’m going to the vending machine for myself. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sam nodded, kicking his legs in time to the music in the movie. “Don’t move from that spot,” Dean added, in his Dad voice.

“Can I have bubble gum?” Sam said, hopefully.

“No, Sammy,” Dean said, “Dad says you’re not old enough to chew gum.”

“I’m four!” Sam said, indignantly. “I’m big!”

“You’ll swallow it, squirt,” Dean said. “I’ll get you a Snickers.”

Sam must have found that deal acceptable, because he went back to _The Wizard of Oz_ without another word. Dean made sure he had cash and the key to the hotel room before he left. Dad told him to stay in the room, but that’s what Dad always said, and Dean knew that sometimes he just had to get out. He was a man, yeah, but he was eight, so a young man, and men needed their freedom. He felt trapped inside such a small space. Usually, he could watch tv with Sam or clean the guns or do something to distract himself. But other times, Sam hogged the television or he wouldn’t stop whining or he was in a really bad mood.

No, sometimes Dean just needed to step out. But he always made sure he didn’t go far. And he double-checked _everything_ before he left.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Sammy hardly noticed when Dean left the hotel room. He was enthralled: Dorothy, Scarecrow, Toto, and Tinman were in the woods. They were about to find Lion! Lion was one of Sammy’s favorite characters. Lion was so silly, but he was nice. Lion was a little too scared of everything, though. Sammy didn’t know what that was like—not at all. Sammy wasn’t scared of anything. No, he wasn’t.

            There was a noise at the door of the hotel room, and then a gentle knock. Sammy froze on the carpet, his feet stilling from their rhythmic sway. Daddy said never to answer the door when he and Dean were alone. Dean never answered the door. He didn’t even let the cleaning ladies come in. He just told them to come back later. Sammy wouldn’t answer the door, either. He went back to the movie.

            The knock came again, this time a little firmer. Sammy felt his body stop moving. He really wanted to finish watching his movie, but he wanted to see who was at the door, too. Dean had gone out—maybe he had forgotten the key to the room? Sammy got up and pushed one of the barstools over to the door. He stood on the stool and looked through the peephole.

            It wasn’t Dean. It was a boy, but he looked a lot older than Dean. He was tall, and he had dark hair and really pale skin. He was kind of pretty, even though Dean said boys couldn’t be pretty. The boy looked from one side to the other, like he was looking for someone to walk up beside him. Sammy didn’t know him. Daddy said never to open the door for strangers. Daddy said never open the door at all. Dean wasn’t here. Sammy didn’t know what to do.

            “Are-are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Sammy stammered, out loud.

            The boy on the other side of the door heard him. He leaned against the door. “What?”

            “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Sammy said again, louder.

            “Is your name Sam Winchester?” the boy said, in a nice, calm voice.

            Daddy also told Sammy to never tell anyone his name unless they were a police officer or an angel. “N-no!”

            “Look, Sam,” the boy said, “I’m not here to hurt you. Can you invite me in?”

            Sam scrambled down from the barstool. He almost lost his footing in his wild movement. “No!”

            “Sam,” the boy said, “your dad sent me to help you! Your dad’s name is John, right?”

            “Yeah,” Sam said, before he could stop himself. “I mean, no! Go away! You’re a stranger!”

            “Sam,” the boy said, in a reasonable tone, “how would I know your dad’s name if I was a bad guy? Open the door and invite me in. I have to help you.” The boy sounded so nice. He sounded like he meant what he said.

            Sam stood in front of the door. He didn’t know what to do. “Daddy sent you?” he asked, hesitantly.

            “Yes, of course he did.”

            Daddy wouldn’t send a bad guy to the hotel room. Daddy wanted to keep Dean and him safe. The boy seemed like he wouldn’t hurt Sammy. He wasn’t ugly like the Wicked Witch of the West. He didn’t act mean like her, either. If he was Daddy’s friend, he was a good guy. “That’s a horse of a different color,” Sammy said.

            He unlocked the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean got two candy bars and a can of Coke from the vending machine. He would share the Coke with Sammy. He saw on the tv that sugar in sodas was bad for kids’ teeth, so he didn’t give Coke to Sam that much, but he could make an exception a couple times a month. He took the hotel room key out of his pocket and hurried back, huddling inside his long-sleeved tee shirt. The weather in Chicago in late spring had turned out to be just shy of cold, leaving Dean chilled but not freezing. He hoped Dad was nice and warm in the fleece-lined coat he had taken with him on his latest hunt.

            Dean got to their hotel room and unlocked it. “Okay, Sammy,” he said, putting on a cheery attitude, “I got Snickers or Butterfinger, take your pick—“

            It took half a minute for Dean to see that his brother wasn’t alone in the hotel room, and then another half for him to dive for the gun on the bedside table. Dean was a fast and tough boy, but he got no further than the hotel room’s small kitchenette before his way was blocked by the tall stranger. “Wait,” the stranger said, but Dean ignored him. He grabbed the crowbar Dad had left by the bar and swung it with all his might at the intruder.

            Dean got one solid hit on the stranger—a dark-haired boy— before the boy grabbed the crowbar and tried to pull it away from Dean. Dean hung on and was lifted several inches off the ground. “Get away from my brother!” Dean shouted, and hoped his voice sounded fierce and not scared to death.

            “Calm down, kid,” the dark-haired stranger said, still holding Dean in the air.

            “Don’t call me a kid!” Dean said, still shouting. “You’re a kid, too!” He swung his feet and tried to kick the other boy in the crotch.

            “Listen to me, Dean,” the dark-haired boy said. He set Dean back on the ground and gently took the crowbar away. Dean couldn’t stop him, and that scared Dean more than anything had in a long time.

            “I’m going to start screaming if you don’t leave right now,” Dean said, and gulped in a big helping of air.

            “John Winchester—your dad—is in incredible danger right now,” the dark-haired boy said. Sammy sneezed behind them and the stranger turned his head. For a second, the dark-haired boy’s eyes glinted silver in the hotel lights, but then they returned to their original grey.

Dean was one hundred percent sure this boy was not human. He took a step back and balled his fists, trying not to shake. “Stop talking about my dad like you know him,” he said. “He doesn’t work with monsters.”

The boy’s face turned flat and expressionless. If Dean didn’t know any better, he would have said the word ‘monster’ had hurt the boy’s feelings. But since the boy was in fact a monster and monsters didn’t have feelings like people did, he knew it wasn’t true. “You’re right. I don’t work with him. But I know the people he’s pissed off—I mean, the people he’s annoyed—and they’re no one you want to mess around with. He’s in a load of trouble.”

“He can handle it,” Dean said, with absolute confidence. No one was as strong or as brave as his dad.

The boy’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “You’ve got a lot of faith in him, Dean. But let’s be realistic, here. There’s a lot of bad things in Chicago that want to hurt people like your dad. And they know the best way to hurt your dad isn’t to hurt him, but—“

Dean wanted to shout, but it came out as a fierce whisper. “Don’t say it; not in front of Sammy.”

The two of them looked back at the small boy hunched up on the hotel couch, staring at them both with wide, brown eyes. Sam pointed at the dark-haired boy. “You’re not Daddy’s friend?”

“No, Sam, I’m not,” the boy admitted.

Sam frowned impressively. “You liar.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to get you to let me in, didn’t I?”

Dean felt his eyes get wide. “You-you’re a vampire.”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of, small fry,” the boy said, and then he slid the backpack off his shoulders. “Okay, kids, it’s been fun, but it’s time to get to business.”

“What busy-ness?” Sam demanded, scrambling over the couch.

“Stay where you are, Sammy,” Dean said, automatically putting himself between the couch and the vampire now unloading a small cooler onto the hotel table. The vampire-boy grimaced and pulled out a plastic bag full of a thick, red liquid. The bag was covered in labels and had some weird tubing dangling from its end.

“Okay,” the vampire-boy said, “listen, Dean, in order to get these bad people to leave you and Sam and your dad alone, we’re going to have to play a trick on them. You see, the bad people sent me here to hurt you and Sam, but I don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?” Dean asked. “You’re a vampire. You’re supposed to like hurting people.”

“Well, I don’t,” the boy said, with a grim look. “Besides, you’re just kids. Hurting you would be wrong on a lot of levels.” Dean couldn’t argue there. Despite the fact that he wanted to be big, he knew he had a lot of growing to do before he reached the boy’s age and height. And Dad always said a person who was bigger and stronger like an adult shouldn’t hurt a person who’s smaller and weaker like a kid.

            “What’s that?” Sam piped up, pointing at the bag full of red stuff.

The boy held up the bag. “This is the trick. We’re going to have to play a little game on some bad guys, Sam. Sound good?”

Sam considered the question for a moment. He turned to look back at the television, where the Wicked Witch of the West was plotting to send Dorothy into a deep sleep. He sighed, as if he regretted that he had to miss the rest of the movie. Then he turned back to the other two boys and said, “Okay!”

“Dean,” the vampire-boy said, looking directly at Dean, “will you play ball?”

Dean didn’t know what to do. He was confused by the fact that a monster wasn’t trying to hurt him or Sam, but instead was trying to help them. He knew he shouldn’t trust a monster. Dad never said anything about monsters who wanted to be good; he only talked about monsters who only knew how to be bad.

“Dean,” the boy said again, only his voice was a little harder this time, “we don’t have all day.”

Dean made his choice and hoped he didn’t regret it. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “What do we have to do?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            John Winchester made it back to the hotel around seven thirty that evening. He was haggard and covered in grime from hunting the dark things of Chicago in back alleys and gutters. The grisly tools of his trade were stowed discreetly in a duffel bag on his shoulder. He was exhausted, but he wasn’t fool enough to skip the precaution of checking both ways down the motel causeway before he used his key to open the door to his hotel room.

            From the front seat of an ivory Mercedes-Benz, Lara Raith sat and watched the seasoned hunter as he walked into his hotel room. The light flipped on in the little kitchen unit. John’s shadow moved behind the curtained window. Lara could hear his voice even from outside, calling for his two sons. There was a brief pause, no doubt the minute or two of silence as the man set down his tools and went hunting for something other than monsters.

            A heartbeat later, John Winchester’s horrified scream was loud enough to wake the guests in the neighboring units. In true Chicago fashion, no one came to find the source of that scream, but lights flickered on and off all down the motel causeway. In the spaces between shadows and lights, the slight figure of Lara’s half-brother made its way to the passenger side of her car. Thomas, her young, impressionable half-brother, flung himself into the seat and said, “He’s coming out. We need to be gone before he does.”

            “Not yet,” Lara said. She took another drag from the cigarette between her lips. Like most young women, she liked her vices hot and dangerous. “Remember, Thomas, we want him to know who left him such a thoughtful gift.” Thomas’s lips tightened, but he didn’t contradict her, the sweet boy.

            Like Thomas had predicted, John Winchester emerged a minute later from his hotel room in a blind fury. He had a gun in one hand and a silver knife in the other. He looked beautiful to Lara, all furious and fairly glowing with rage. Lara put the car in drive, rolled down her window, and called, “House Raith sends its regards, Mister Winchester.” Before the man could even raise his gun, she put her foot to the gas pedal and whipped the Mercedes-Benz out of the parking lot.

            “That was dramatic,” Thomas muttered, rolling his eyes.

            “Gore Vidal once said: ‘Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn’,” Lara said. “We are stylish, Thomas, darling. Not dramatic.”

             “Right,” Thomas said. “Tell that to John Winchester.”

            “There’s no need to bring the claws out, now, little brother. You did very well. Did you bring any proof for Father to show that the deed was done?”

            In response to her question, Thomas pulled out three Polaroid pictures. Lara kept one hand on the wheel and used the other to look at the pictures. The first was a shot of a big hotel bed with two small figures on top of it. The larger boy was curled on top of the smaller one, clearly trying to protect him. There was a mess of blood on the back of the older boy’s tee shirt. The younger boy was difficult to see underneath his brother, but his eyes were staring off in a vague direction and his body was lying atop another pool of blood. The second Polaroid was a picture of a dagger held in Thomas’s hand, with the Winchester boys in the background, still alive at this point but backed into a corner and screaming. The last Polaroid was of the same dagger, covered in blood and held up next to Thomas’s grim face. The now dead Winchester boys were in the background of this photo as well.

            “And you accuse me of dramatics,” Lara said, amused. “Are you auditioning for the role of Richard the Third?”

            “Shut up, Lara,” Thomas said, and leaned his seat back. “It’s not a joke.”

            “No, but it’s something to be happy about. You’ve finally made your contribution to the Raith family, Thomas. You’ll be much less of a pariah, now. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

            “Apparently, it took killing two kids to do it,” Thomas snapped.

            “Well, we do what we must for the family,” Lara said, and stretched languidly. “I’m taking you for a celebratory drink. I think it’s time you had your first encounter with Zero.”

            Thomas put his hands to his eyes. “I just assassinated two children, and you want me to go clubbing?”

            Lara made a sharp left turn and Thomas slid up against the window. “This is your life now, Thomas. It’s time for you to jump in with both feet.” She reached behind her and threw a tight leather jacket at her half-brother. “I brought you something more appropriate. Blood is only a fashion statement in certain circles, after all.”

            Thomas looked like he would rather burn the jacket than wear it, but he put it on without a complaint. Behind the wheel, Lara smiled. Her brother was learning how to play the game, and he was only seventeen. At this rate, he might be a fine addition to House Raith, even if he was technically a bastard son.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to kill him, after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            John Winchester sat on the floor of the hotel room and stared at his bloody sons. They were both sitting on the bed. Dean had his arm around Sam. Sam rubbed at his eyes and yawned. It was almost Sam’s bedtime, John noted, somewhat hysterically. He reached out his arms, and Dean put Sam on his lap. John closed his arms around his youngest and rocked him back and forth. Sam was soon asleep. Apparently, even the dried blood caked on his pajamas wasn’t enough to wake him. John looked back up at Dean and gave him a look which Dean could interpret without words.

            “It was a vampire-boy,” Dean began, his eyes large and earnest. John had to take a moment to remember how very young his oldest son was. Dean’s feet didn’t even reach the floor as he sat on the hotel bed, and his long sleeved tee shirt had a Batman design on it. “I don’t know how old he was, but he was a kid, and he came in and Sammy let him over the threshold, and I thought for sure he was gonna gut us, but he didn’t hurt either of us, Dad!”

            “A vampire-boy,” John said, blankly.

            “Yeah, he was like an older kid. I think maybe he was in high school. But he had these weird silvery eyes, but he could touch the cross on my neck. So I don’t know, he’s a weird vampire, Dad.”

            John knew exactly what kind of vampire this “kid” must have been. The idea that a White Court vampire had touched either of his children made him shiver in fear and swallow down white-hot anger. White Court vampires were not as repulsive physically as Red or Black Court vampires, but they were revolting in their feeding habits. What was worse, John knew that this particular vampire was most likely from House Raith, the house with a dominance in Chicago’s club scene. Raiths fed on lust and sexual energy. And one of them had been in a hotel room alone with his eight year-old son.

            “Come here, Dean,” John said, almost gently. Dean slid off the bed and scooted in close to John. John put the arm not supporting Sammy around his oldest and pulled him in close. “Did this kid touch you in a way that was inappropriate for another person to touch you?” he asked, straightforward.

            Dean’s face twisted in disgust. “What, like was he a weirdo who likes to kiss little kids? No, Dad! Gross!”

            The reaction was such a relief that John nearly laughed out loud. “Okay, good,” John said, “that’s really good.”

            “No, it wasn’t like that,” Dean reasserted. “I mean, don’t high schoolers all like girls? I think they only want to kiss girls their age.”

            “Sure, Dean,” John said. “We’ll go with that, for now.”

             

**Author's Note:**

> This work was born from watching two-or-three-minute clips from The Wizard of Oz on Youtube while ruminating on Supernatural.


End file.
